Our Mother
who art in Gaia,
brown as loam,
mingle in small sacraments
of compost and compassion.
Be the breath we take,
the bread we make each day
with our own wrinkled hands.
Let our prayer word be “Enough.”
For you are the weaver of galaxies
into nests for young planets,
and you sing the whole sky in a robin’s egg.
In you we are always home.
Dissolve the veil of judgment,
dispel our illusion of impurity,
so that we may immerse one another
in your bodily fluid
of abounding goodness.
For thine is the roundness
and the brokenness
and the healing.
Amen.
A page from 'The Fire of Darkness'
with mandala by Rashani Réa: See books below.
The Arabic says, "Heaven lies under the feet of mothers."
